


The Burning

by 13thDoctor



Series: a wild dedication of yourselves [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Episode Related, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 09:45:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18808657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor
Summary: It takes another battle for Jon to realize where he belongs.





	The Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on tumblr (find me @ daughtersofthanos) told me I should write more Jonmund, and I agree, especially after ep. 4. Comments and kudos are, as always, appreciated! Enjoy!

They have defeated the dead.

Tormund stumbles across the battlefield. With each step it quiets, the hiss of final breaths and smoldering fires turning to silence once more. He has never liked the quiet. Taking great gulps of air, he listens for voices, footsteps. He slams his fist against his chest in time with his heart beating. As long as it thuds against his ribcage, he knows Jon is alive somewhere.

The night is dark. Casting his eyes about, Tormund stumbles forward blindly. Blood drips over his skin and clothes, some of it his, some of it theirs. There’s mud and filth and snow and he doesn’t care, can’t even think, he just needs to feel Jon’s body in his arms.

His wildling brothers and sisters clasp their palms around his shoulders. They cheer and scream, or sigh and weep. He counts his losses with his blood boiling. The thrill of war is slowly dulling into the sorrow of loss and the fear of finding his little crow among the bodies.

He takes another step. Then another. His chest aches with the grief of what could be, and his legs ache with the effort of a thousand miles walked over mountains. Once more he pounds on the cloak covering his heart, and it beats back strongly.

Jon stands frozen in an archway, a sword dangling from his hand. His boots sink into the mud beneath him. He looks toward Tormund. Even in the shadows, Tormund can see him smile.

Without hesitation, Tormund sprints toward Jon and wraps himself around him. He cackles fiercely as they fall to the ground together, and their incoherent shouts of relief are replaced with breathlessness as Tormund kisses Jon again and again.

And suddenly the ache in his muscles is gone; his stomach burns hot as dragon-fire and he longs to rip Jon’s clothes off where he stands. He stops kissing him long enough to draw back and yells, “I want to fuck you.”

Jon stares at him. He casts his gaze about, only just noticing the other survivors meandering around them. Winterfell is littered with corpses. The air is thick with smoke, and the others will be looking for him to lead them out of this terror.

Tormund sees the hesitation in Jon’s eyes, that annoying tendency to restrain himself. He puts his hands on either side of Jon’s face. He bites his lips. “You’re alive. So am I. Fighting makes me hungry, and I want to eat you alive, little crow.”

…

Jon pulls Tormund along with him. They are both exhausted, congratulating their comrades with the smallest words. There will be a feast later, but Jon can barely bring himself to care. Tormund will want to drink, of course, and Jon will want to watch him make a fool of himself. That can all wait, though.

Daenerys sits alone in the hall. There are tears running down her face. Jon doesn’t even need to tell Tormund to wait; he stands quietly by the stairs while Jon presses a tender kiss to his aunt’s forehead. “Clean yourself and rest. We will drink tonight in their honor and bury them in the morning.” She nods. Jon leaves.

They station Ghost at the door. He is happy to guard in exchange for an elk’s bone from their winter stores. Chewing, he smiles at them with sharp white teeth, and they close the door.

The washroom has already been made up for the lord of the North. Steam rises from the tub. Jon turns to Tormund and, smirking, inclines his head toward the water.

Their clothes are heavy, caked in mud, weighted with ruin. Undressing takes so long that Tormund suggests hacking at their cloaks with knives. “You’re always so eager,” Jon says, a little ashamed at the blush in his cheeks.

Tormund frowns. “’Course I am. Look at you.”

“I can’t. This bloody armor won’t come off.” They laugh, and Tormund attacks Jon’s clothes with renewed vigor after a few persuasive kisses.

When Jon is finally only down to his tunic, he strips himself and steps into the tub. At first it burns—the immediate contrast to the chill outdoors makes his skin hurt. But then Tormund steps in behind him and hugs him close, humming a wildling folk song, and the pain is forgotten.

The water wasn’t filled for two people, and certainly not someone with Tormund’s weight. Some of it splashes onto the stone tiles as they settle, Jon’s back to Tormund’s chest. Soft laughter permeates the otherwise silent space.

When Jon closes his eyes, he imagines himself in the northern caves and those hot springs, not this fortress, and certainly not at the Wall. He imagines himself home. He thinks back to the past weeks: pledging his loyalty to Daenerys, reuniting with his family, discovering his heritage, as well as every minute spent in Tormund’s company. They understand each other, and not just physically. Jon has always been a wandering bastard. In Tormund’s embrace, however, he feels found.

Tormund knees Jon in the side, startling him out of his musings. “Ow,” he reprimands, though he is only teasing. Tormund knows this and slides his thumb along Jon’s scar—the one above his heart.

“Don’t fall asleep. I still want to fuck you.”

“Mm. Ever the romantic.” The ensuing chuckle reverberates through both their chests. Jon is warm again, warm like he never thought he’d feel when he stood and screamed at that icy monster.

They scrub the ash and grime from one another’s skin and hair until Jon can’t see their legs beneath the water’s surface. Tormund’s calloused hands, he’s learned over their time together, can be surprisingly gentle. Jon kisses his palms while his heart bursts at the sheer tenderness and joy that Tormund brings him. There is a thought blooming in his mind, and one look into Tormund’s eyes is enough to turn it into his deepest desire.

…

Jon leaves the washroom first, carefully trailing his fingers down Tormund’s wrist as he goes. His gaze burns. There is a growl buried deep within Tormund’s chest that he releases as Jon steps away and into the other room. He finishes drying himself with Jon’s discarded towel, then follows.

The bedroom is dark, with only flickering candlelight to see by. In the north, the moon would illuminate them, but the windows here are small and scarce. And this is a great shame, for Tormund can barely make out the pale outline of Jon’s body where he lays on the bed, hair loose, touching himself lazily.

Grinning, Tormund throws himself atop Jon, eliciting both a groan and a great laugh from his lover. He swats Jon’s hand away and instead buries his head between Jon’s thighs. Any more laughter dies in Jon’s throat, translating itself to a half-strangled gasp. Tormund bites Jon’s skin and soothes it with his tongue before he mouths Jon’s cock. He loves his taste, loves the heady scent of violence coursing through his veins, especially this vein in particular.

Jon’s hips buck up enthusiastically, but Tormund has bigger plans. He pulls away and licks his lips. Jon looks like he wants to strangle him. “I see coming home has turned you back into a spoiled little prince,” Tormund mocks lightly.

“Insult me or put your cock in me, Tormund, you can’t have both.”

Tormund feels as feral as these southerners accuse him to be when he straddles Jon. He winds his fingers in Jon’s hair and pulls, hard, exposing Jon’s throat so that he can sink his teeth into his collarbone. He will add to the bruises Jon has already received tonight. The thought excites him, though not as much as Jon’s hand. He has obviously found some oil, Tormund realizes, as he responds to a pleasant wetness while Jon strokes him into hardness

He digs his nails into Jon’s shoulder and twists him to his side, then lays beside him. Tormund loves Jon like this, untamed and unburdened, begging for Tormund. He holds him closer with one arm across his chest and the other opening him up the way he knows will make Jon whimper. The sound is sweeter than anything Tormund has ever heard. But Jon is so loose already, malleable like snow, and Tormund can’t take it anymore.

“I love you,” he whispers, his mouth pressed close to Jon’s ear. His voice is steady. He pushes inside Jon. “And when I fuck you, I understand why they think you’re a god. I want to worship you.” Rolling his hips, he eases Jon through any lingering tightness, listening to the intakes of his breath that will alert him if he’s ready or not, because Jon can barely speak when Tormund takes him. “I never want to share you,” he murmurs. He shoves as deep as he can into Jon. “Tell me I have you.”

“I’m yours,” Jon says on a strained breath. “I’m yours.”

He cries out when Tormund thrusts. Tormund presses his forehead to the back of Jon’s head. “Open your eyes,” he tells him. He doesn’t have to check to know that Jon has.

There is not a single part of him that doesn’t shake as Tormund pulls in and out. Their kisses are messy, all teeth and strained necks and shared spit. Tormund meant what he said before; he would consume him. He moves his hand from Jon’s chest to his cock, because Jon’s own hands are too busy gripping the furs beneath them to give it the attention it deserves.

He drives them down so hard he fears they will break these flimsy southern beds. Jon is loud and so is Tormund. Although he does not care if the whole castle hears them, he would give anything to undo Jon Snow outside of its walls, under the northern stars.

They are far too spent from the battle to last as long as they’d prefer. Jon’s warning is always a rapid tightening and a long moan which Tormund swallows down into his lungs. His hips stutter before he too spills over, and he rides the residual waves of Jon’s bliss in addition to his own. The result is the most intense pleasure he’s ever felt, and he can barely breathe when he’s finished.

…

“Did you mean it?” Jon holds Tormund to his mutilated chest, drawing upon the wildling’s warmth in the freezing morning.

Tormund nuzzles his nose into the crook of Jon’s neck, sated and drowsy. “Mean what?”

Jon strokes Tormund’s beard, as he tends to do when there’s something important to discuss. He takes a deep breath and a long pause before he speaks. “That you love me.”

“Yes,” Tormund answers, “I love you.” He sits up and catches Jon’s eyes. What he finds there must not console him because he adds, “I’m not a child, I don’t need you to say it—”

“I love you too, Tormund.”

“Oh.”

Jon jostles him, laughing. “Oh? You don’t believe me?”

Tormund wrestles Jon underneath him. He pins Jon’s wrists to the bed and grins down at him. Jon is reminded fondly of a bonfire as he looks up at the orange mane framing Tormund’s face. Soon Tormund is kissing him, unbearably soft. “Come back to the North with me,” he whispers.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you got your brains knocked out last night.”

Tormund shoves him, then leaps off the bed, whooping as loud as he’s able. Jon runs to him and tries to grab hold, tries to shut him up, but his efforts are hardly valiant. They’re back in each other’s arms before the sun rises, exhausted yet inspired.

…

As is expected of them, they watch the lighting of the funeral pyres. Tormund gathers near his people, his heart heavy as he understands just how few remain. When the black smoke has obscured the clouds, they depart.

Tormund can barely keep his eyes open as they trudge through Winterfell’s ruins. He drank far too much wine at the feast and fucked Jon more hours than either of them had actually slept. His entire body rebels against him now as he follows Jon, Daenerys, and the Stark women to privacy.

Still, he manages to return the pleasantries the noblewomen offer him as they settle onto charred benches. After that, however, Tormund’s headache wins the struggle between distraction and diplomacy.

He does not hear much until Jon says, “I leave Winterfell to you, Lady Sansa. My home…” Jon trails off and Tormund looks over, brows furrowed. When Jon takes his hand, Arya smiles. “My home lies elsewhere,” Jon finishes. His fingers grip Tormund’s almost tightly enough to hurt.

…

It isn’t easy to say goodbye, of course, yet Jon manages it. With Ghost trotting beside him, they get as far as the first mile before he turns to stare in the direction of the place he once thought he would always call home.

Tormund places his hand on Jon’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “Do you want to go back?”

“No,” Jon replies, resolute. His feet sink into the snow as he finally looks away from that lonely horizon. The North calls for him in whispers of wind and the promise of the man beside him. “I know where I belong now.”


End file.
